


A Shadow at the Feast

by MirrorMystic



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Other, POV Second Person, Spoilers for the conclusion of The Last Constable/Cheery Man storyline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22705573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirrorMystic/pseuds/MirrorMystic
Summary: It's not the eyes that give her away. Not at first.___A bittersweet reunion during The Feast of the Exceptional Rose.
Relationships: The Last Constable/Player (Fallen London)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	A Shadow at the Feast

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Twitter at @mystic_writes

~*~   
  
It’s not the eyes that give her away.    
  
Not at first, at any rate, though the flash of recognition and the way she stops in her tracks certainly doesn’t help her disguise. But no; it’s the way she carries herself, too poised and dignified for any devil-may-care chimney sweep worth their broom. It’s how, even in the shadows of Spite, she still walks with her head held high.    
  
She lets you whisk her away to an alley beyond the gaslight lamps. You come to a halt, release her hand, and immediately regret it-- you need to touch her. Hold her. If only to assure yourself she isn’t a ghost.    
  
For her part, she reaches for you, tentative, before pulling back, curling her gloved fingers into fists. She hangs her head, searching for the words in the cobblestones at her feet. In the interim you study her; beneath the fake scar, the makeup and ratty clothes, you see her. A woman, too righteous for her own good. A woman whose sense of justice would inevitably get her killed.    
  
Somehow, still alive.    
  
“I’m sorry,” you both blurt at the same time.    
  
Sheepish, echoed apologies. Averted eyes. Perhaps even the hint of pink on her cheek, though it’s too dark to tell.    
  
“Pardon me,” you say, and gesture for her to continue.    
  
“I’m sorry,” she repeats, and at last her eyes meet your own. “What I said, when last we spoke… it was spoken in grief. Anger. And error.”   
  
That night lies seared in your memory like lightning on the back of your eyelids. The elation and relief of seeing her walk out of the Medusa’s Head-- only for her to coldly demand that she never see your face again.    
  
You shake your head in apology.    
  
“...I killed your father,” you say.    
  
“You saved my life,” she murmurs.    
  
A long moment passes between you. A dozen emotions flicker across her eyes, only a few of which you can name.   
  
An hour later, she’s sitting in your parlor, and you’re putting on a pot of tea.    
  
This is foolish, you both realize. A doomed endeavor. She was a woman with dangerous enemies. But your time in London has made you rather dangerous, as well. You’re hardly the naive Londoner you were when you’d first met, fresh off the zeppelin from New Newgate Prison.    
  
Perhaps she would be safer, with you in her shadow.    
  
Perhaps she would even be happy.    
  
You smile over the rim of your teacup. The very notion was something the Bazaar would covet; if you had ten pence for every thought like that…   
  
But once again, her eyes meet yours across your dining room table, and the doubt washes away.    
  
Whatever you were-- loyal friend, useful pawn, or anything and everything in between-- you were there for her when she needed you most. You were bound by fate, secrets, and the blood on both your hands.    
  
As she takes your hand in hers, you find yourself realizing you would die for this woman.    
  
After all, you’ve already done it once before. And it didn’t keep you down for long.   
  
“No names,” she whispers, as you take her in your arms. “Just now.”   
  
Perhaps this is the best one can hope for in the shadows. A moment of rest. A moment of trust. A moment to breathe, behind closed doors without any watchful eyes or hidden blades.    
  
Nothing lasts forever in the Neath. But you have tonight. And you’ll fight for tomorrow.    
  
Perhaps this is love.    
  
And in the deepest matters of the Bazaar, look to love. Always.    
  
~*~


End file.
